


No Secrets

by Gigi_Sinclair



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Lingerie, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Stockings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-01
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:34:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21632995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gigi_Sinclair/pseuds/Gigi_Sinclair
Summary: Edward really hates dressing up. Turns out, he doesn't mind so much when Thomas does it.
Relationships: Thomas Jopson/Lt Edward Little
Comments: 9
Kudos: 106
Collections: The Terror Bingo (2019)





	No Secrets

**Author's Note:**

> For my Bingo square "lingerie." Title, naturally, from the Lizzo song on the same theme.

When he thinks of personal tortures, "wearing a costume" ranks highly on Edward's list of the worst. Still, he has never been one to disobey a command, and, shortly after Commander Fitzjames' admonition to “not wait too long”, he finds himself sitting in the freezing bowels of the ship, sorting through masks and hats and clothing of all sizes and sorts imaginable. Holding up an extravagant ballgown, dark mauve with lace on the sleeves, Edward wonders, not for the first time, exactly who was charged with packing these crates. 

He's heard, of course, of all sorts of benjos held aboard ships on long voyages. Dances and parties and balls. He knows men often play the part of ladies at these events, and that the great Sir James Ross himself donned a dress in the Antarctic. Edward asked Thomas about it one night before the captain's confinement, when they had time for secret rendez-vous. 

“He was lovely.” Thomas grinned. “A very suitable companion for the dashing Commander Crozier.” Not for the first time, Edward felt a twinge of jealousy at Thomas' admiring mention of the captain. It was shameful, he knew, but anything that drew Thomas' eye, or even his thoughts, away from Edward was a source of miserable jealousy these days. 

“You yourself did not dress up?” Edward asked, in an attempt to mask the emotion, unfitting and unfair as it was. He meant in any sort of costume, but Thomas said, “No gowns left for me, I'm afraid.” That brought quite a different image to Edward's mind. 

He wasn't the type of man who noticed fashion. He'd seen his sisters spend hours before an upcoming ball trying on everything they owned and declaring every item hopelessly inadequate, until their father acquiesced to new dresses for all of them. In truth, Edward could see no difference between the dresses they despised and those they coveted. It was all much of a muchness to him. Despite this, the thought of Thomas in such a garment, with a corseted waist and voluminous skirts and a neckline Edward's father would have declared indecent, sent a strange _frisson_ through Edward's body. 

A _frisson_ which became an outright shudder when Thomas added, “I did wear a dress once, though. When I was an AB.” Thomas had told him something of those days, long ago and short-lived as they were. Edward could never picture it. Refinement, despite what a good many people would say, is not based upon birth alone, and Thomas is far too refined to ever have been a common sailor. “We put on a play. I can't remember why. Probably boredom. I took the part of the leading lady. Girl, I should say. I was all of fifteen.” 

“I'm sure the men enjoyed it immensely.” Edward was proud at the evenness of his tone. It betrayed nothing of his infernal jealousy, washing over him in a renewed wave. The understanding smile Thomas gave him, and the quick kiss that followed, seemed to disagree with Edward's assessment of his own subtlety. 

“They might have liked it. I didn't. The dress was too small for me, and made of the most horribly itchy wool. I loved the stockings, though.” A dreamy look appeared in Thomas' eyes. “Real silk, and beautifully striped, with little bows on the welts. I can't think where they came from. I'd never felt anything so marvellous.” He sighed. Before Edward could plumb hitherto unfathomed depths of desperation and become envious of a pair of stockings, Thomas added, “I would have kept them, but I simply hadn't anyplace to wear them.” He laughed happily, and the evening moved on, away from memories and onto more pressing matters at hand. 

Later, however, when he reached his peak with his prick in Thomas' mouth and his fingers entwined with Thomas', the thought of Thomas in striped silk stockings crashed unbidden and unexpected into Edward's mind, and he spilled more copiously than he had in a very long time. 

This memory comes to Edward again in _Terror_ 's hold, as he lays aside the gown. Beneath it is a pair of stockings. 

They have seen better days. Even Edward, a novice where it comes to women's clothing, can see it. One toe is in dire need of darning. A slight tear runs up the back of the other. Still, they are obviously well made, snow white and covered with a pattern of little pink rosettes. Taking them into his hands, Edward feels the smooth slide of silk. They are accompanied by a pair of black lace welts, one a bit shabbier than the other but both very fine, and doubtlessly costly when first purchased. Edward wonders to whom they once belonged. Miss Cracroft? Lady Jane Franklin? 

This is a road Edward has no desire to travel. He returns the gown to the crate and shuts the lid. If Commander Fitzjames asks, he will say he decided to leave the costumes to the men, as most of the officers are doing. The stockings and welts, Edward secretes in the pocket of his coat. 

He has a mind to give them to Thomas, although he doesn't know when an opportunity might arise. He doesn't even know what Thomas is meant to do with them, only that they will hopefully make him smile. Edward would like that very much. Thomas conceals his feelings well. Far better than Edward does, but Edward knows the current situation is straining him. It is painful for Thomas, in both the emotional sense and the physical one, to be caring for the captain so diligently. That the captain's malady is the same as the one which plagued Thomas' late mother makes things all the more difficult, or so Edward imagines. He and Thomas talk very little these days. 

Nevertheless, Edward knows Thomas well enough to recognize the exhaustion in his eyes when he chances upon him emerging from the captain's sickroom, a pile of dirty linens in his arms. 

“How are things today?” Edward asks. It irritates Thomas when the officers, Edward included, bombard him with questions about the captain. This time, Thomas merely sighs. 

“I was a 'cocksucking son of a diseased whore' this morning, this afternoon a 'blessed angel beyond his deserving.'” 

Edward stiffens. Illness or no, the captain has no right to hurl abuse at Thomas. “The latter,” Edward says, “is undeniably true.” He reaches out. Thomas allows him to place a hand on his shoulder. “You should get some rest. Please, Thomas. Allow me to sit with him.” 

Thomas shakes his head. “I promised him. I'm all right. It's no worse than I had with my mother.” 

“That doesn't mean you should suffer it again. Thomas, I...” 

Thomas holds up a hand. “He may sleep tonight. If so, I shall retire to my own bed. I swear it, Ned,” he adds, apparently sensing Edward's unspoken doubts. 

Edward relents. He has no choice. “I worry about you." 

“I know.” He rests his cheek against Edward's hand, just for a moment, and then is off again. 

With a sigh, Edward moves along as well. He doesn't anticipate Thomas will keep his promise, no matter how good his intentions may be. Still, he takes the stockings and their welts from his pocket, pulls back the curtain to Thomas' small cabin, and, with a glance over his shoulder, slips them beneath the coverlet of Thomas' bed. Thomas must come here sometime. When he does, Edward hopes they will serve as a reminder Edward knows him and listens to him and, above all, loves him, despite the circumstances which are keeping them apart. 

***

The next evening, Edward is surprised when Thomas, for the first time in weeks, serves at dinner.

“Is the captain on the mend, then?” Hodgson asks, as Thomas fills his glass with Allsopp's. 

“I am cautiously optimistic, sir.” His gaze moves to Edward's. “I would like to meet with you after the meal, Lieutenant Little, if you have the time, sir. There are some issues I would care to discuss.” 

“That sounds rather ominous,” Hodgson says, digging into his food at the same time as Edward replies, “Of course, Mr. Jopson.” 

“Just a routine query, sir. Nothing to worry about.” Thomas fills Irving's glass, and then the doctor's. Dr. MacDonald has said nothing during this exchange, but he could hardly be expected to discuss the captain's medical business in front of all and sundry. Will he attend this meeting? Is Thomas being honest when he says there is “nothing to worry about”, or is that, too, meant only to guard the captain's privacy? These questions turn themselves over in Edward's mind as he eats, occupying his thoughts despite the normally pleasing distraction of having Thomas in the room. 

Evening activities in the great cabin have been suspended whilst the captain convalesces. When everyone has finished, the company, including the doctor, disbands, heading to their own cabins or to other parts of the ship. As requested, Edward hangs back, until the table is cleared and he and Thomas are alone in the room.

“Well?” Edward's voice is sharper than he means it to be, anxiety making him curt. “What is it?” 

“As I said, sir, a routine query.” Thomas' expression is indecipherable. “I have a question regarding uniform.” 

“Uniform?” 

“Yes.” Thomas raises his leg, placing his foot on the seat of the nearest chair. The sight of Thomas with his foot on a dining chair is itself so shocking, Edward takes a moment to understand what is happening when Thomas pulls up his trouser leg and reveals a white silk stocking, dotted with pink rosettes. “Would this be considered regulation, sir? I would hate to have duty owing should the acting captain find me inadequately dressed.” 

Edward is speechless. He feels stupid, but he never considered Thomas might actually _wear_ the stockings. His mouth grows curiously dry, at the same time his fingers itch to touch them. It would be so easy. All he has to do is reach forward a few inches and he would feel the smooth satiny silk of the stocking, with the muscled warmth of Thomas' leg behind it.

“The captain slept well last night,” Thomas goes on, conversationally. He lets his trouser fall. The stocking disappears. Edward is at once bereft. “If he does so again tonight, I shall visit you for a proper inspection.” 

Edward can only grunt in reply. Thomas beams. He knows exactly what he does to Edward. Edward is sure of that. He revels in it, and Edward enjoys Thomas' self-satisfaction almost as much as he enjoys Thomas himself. 

***

It's late when Edward is jerked out of sleep by the sound of rustling in his pitch-dark cabin. A moment later, a warm weight descends on him, and another heart beats fast against his chest. 

“Hello, sir.” Thomas' voice murmurs in his ear. He rarely calls Edward “sir” when they're alone, and only when he's in a particular mood. “Are you my secret admirer, then? The one what left me them lovely stockings?” His accent is coarse. He plays at that sometimes when they are together in this way, speaking like a navvy or a barrow boy. Edward is never sure if it's a game, or if it is Thomas, showing himself in the dark in a way he doesn't in the light. 

Edward responds by running his hands down Thomas' lean body. He wishes he could look upon it, but he has learned that any flicker of light in his cabin, at any time of day, will be seen by someone as an invitation to knock and discuss their problems. And the dark can be exciting, as well. 

He can feel Thomas is half-dressed. His shirt and waistcoat remain, barrier against the inescapable cold, but lower down, Edward encounters bare skin. Edward caresses it gently, passing briefly over Thomas' already rising cock and instead stroking his warm thighs. He wanders down to a spot just above Thomas' knees, where his fingers abut the lace of the stocking welts. 

“Prettiest things I ever seen." Thomas presses a kiss to Edward's ear. “Can't think where you might have got 'em. Must be your lady wife's.” 

Edward says nothing. He never does when Thomas gets talking, and especially not when he spins imaginary tales. He can never think of anything appropriate to say.

“What would she think, eh? Putting her lovely things on a common trollop like me.” 

Now, Edward must interject. “You're not that.” Not a trollop, certainly, and the most uncommon man Edward has ever met. It's important he know that, even in the midst of a game. 

“No? What am I, then, sir? You tell me.” 

Edward swallows as Thomas kisses his throat. The answer is a simple one. “You are everything.” 

Thomas stops. For a moment, Edward thinks he must have got it wrong. It doesn't surprise him. Eloquence isn't his forte in any arena, and particularly not, it seems, in the bedroom. Then Thomas' hands come to either side of Edward's face, holding him in place as Thomas kisses him, hard and wet until they both grow breathless. 

When he breaks away, leaving Edward gasping, Thomas reaches beneath the covers and pulls up the hem of Edward's nightshirt all the way to his chest. Cold air assaults Edward's newly bared skin, but not for long. Soon, Thomas covers him again. He kisses his way between Edward's nipples, then down to his stomach, and further down still. By the time Thomas reaches his destination, Edward's prick is bobbing eagerly. 

Edward could—and has—happily finished with just a few swirls of Thomas' talented tongue, but tonight, it seems, the plan is different. When Edward is sporting a mainmast stiff enough to be the pride of any ship in Her Majesty's fleet, Thomas pulls his mouth off. The stockings rub against Edward's legs, then against his flanks as Thomas settles himself back on top. Before he knows what's happening, Edward finds himself fully sheathed in Thomas' exquisite heat. 

“I got myself ready for you,” Thomas whispers. “Couldn't wait. Did it back in my own berth, wearing nothin' but them stockings.” Edward groans, too loudly, and bites his lip. “You like that thought, sir?” He can hear a smile in Thomas' voice, and he's glad of it. “Like the idea of me touchin' myself there? Getting my fingers inside? I liked it, too. But not as much as I like having you in me.” His voice catches on the last word, as he squirms on Edward's cock. Edward does not think it pure theatrics. 

He could lie here, the picture of most ungentlemanly sloth, and let Thomas do all of the work. He has done so on many occasions in the past, and enjoyed it greatly. Tonight, he fancies a sauce of a different flavour. Hooking his legs around Thomas, he holds him close and rolls them over. It's no small feat in the narrow space, but Edward is well experienced at it. Thomas laughs, a quiet huff of air, and brings his legs around Edward in return. The silk rubs against and sticks to the increasingly sweat-soaked skin of Edward's back as Edward takes over the active role. 

Edward knows he's doing his job well when Thomas begins to pant, his breath warm and wet against Edward's ear. One of the welts slips, releasing the stocking. Twin sensations, the slippery smoothness of Thomas' stocking on one side and the rougher hairiness of Thomas' leg on the other, play upon Edward like the most exquisite duet as he moves back and forth, in and out. 

Edward can't hold on for long. He fumbles between their bodies. Thomas' prick is straining and ready; with only a few strokes, he is spilling. His body tightens reflexively around Edward, who follows quickly behind him.

Normally, after they reach completion, Thomas' stories and fictional scenarios disappear as quickly and completely as popped bubbles. This time, as he and Edward lie pressed together in the bunk, he kisses Edward's lips, then his cheeks, and mutters, “Your wife ain't getting these stockings back, sir. They're mine now. And so are you.” 

“Yes.” Undoubtedly. Entirely. Despite the danger, despite the risks, which, even though Edward is by nature a cautious man, have always paled in comparison to the unearthly joy of being with Thomas.

Normally, Edward would leave it there. Perhaps it is the stocking still pressed against one of his calves, perhaps it's the repeated reference to Edward's nonexistent wife, but tonight he's inspired to add, “I always will be, Thomas. Always. No matter where we are.” 

Part of Thomas still thinks Edward is merely making the best of a bad lot, and as soon as they're home again, Thomas will be tossed aside. Edward knows this, because part of him thinks it of Thomas, too. But Edward is no fool. He knows how fortunate he is, and speaking for himself, there's nowhere in the world he would rather be than with Thomas. No woman—or other man, for that matter—could tempt his eye or lure his heart away. How could they? “You're perfect,” he adds, with a kiss to Thomas' temple. 

Thomas sniffs. Edward is glad of the dark, if it keeps him from having to see Thomas cry. Feeling it is bad enough, a revelatory wetness against his neck when Thomas rests his head Edward's shoulder. Edward can hardly blame him. Edward is under far less strain than Thomas, and he feels like bursting into tears several times a day. 

“Thank you,” Thomas whispers, at length, his usual accent restored. “So very much, Ned. You always know just what I need.” 

“It's nothing. I only found them at the bottom of the costume crate.” A hesitation, followed by an unexpected kiss, dropped lightly onto Edward's shoulder. 

“You will be at Carnivale?” Thomas asks. 

“It appears I have no choice.” 

“I shall be sad to miss the chance to see you all dressed up.” 

“I have no costume as of yet.” In truth, Edward hopes he might get away without one, if he can avoid the Commander until it's too late to do anything about it. 

“Do you wish to partake of mine?” He moves one leg up, until it lies across Edward's waist. He adjusts his sagging stocking, then sets Edward's hand atop it. Edward slips his fingers over the silk, and imagines wearing the stockings himself, either in public or in bed. The latter thought is unappealing; the former, horrifying bordering upon life-threatening. 

“I have very much enjoyed partaking of it already.” It's true. He allows himself a flight of fancy: he and Thomas, at home in England, a warm and comfortable bed beneath them and Thomas' armoire filled with silk stockings in every colour of the rainbow, every pattern known to man. 

“In that case, darling...” Thomas shifts, but makes no move to leave. This is unusual. They may trade a few post-coital kisses, but apart from that, they do not dally after their encounters. It is courting disaster to do so, Edward knows. He knows, too, the more time he has with Thomas, the less inclined he is to let him go, yet he makes no move to eject him from the bed. Rather the reverse. He holds Thomas all the tighter as Thomas goes on, “I shall have to tell you about the time I wore a lace chemise and drawers to a boatswain's birthday party.”


End file.
